


the caves behind my house

by pelele



Category: A Softer World, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Character Death, Dark Newt Scamander, Developing Friendships, Drinking to Cope, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mild Smut, New Years, Obsession, Past Relationship(s), Semi-Public Sex, Sex on Furniture, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-05-08 19:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14700291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelele/pseuds/pelele
Summary: A Softer Worldprompts meets Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.a series of short stories with varying ships in each chapter





	1. Gramander: You aren’t really a good person, but god damn, you make bad look awesome. (no one could steer me right, but mama tried.)

The first time Percival Graves meets Newt Scamander it’s on a city-turned-battlefield. There’s wreckage all around them, and the subway’s harsh lights highlight the wood of his wand— oak, English oak if Percival’s tedious, childhood lessons at home on wands and their lore had taught him anything— which is stained with blood, the blood of Aurors. His Aurors. Scamander steps over the bodies of the Goldstein sisters with ease, like he hasn’t ordered his beasts to rip them limb from limb, like he hadn’t watched and smiled with a maternal fondness as the Swooping Evil tore into the elder sister’s head and devoured her brain while she cried for mercy.

Percival’s team is reduced to nothing more than shredded flesh and robes, his wand is snapped in half and he’s struggling to stand up. The boy, Credence, Percival thinks he is ( _was_ ) called, his Obscurus form destroyed the subway and caused cement and stone to come crashing down over them. A piece of metal punctures Percival’s thigh, and blood is beginning to pool around him.

He hopes not to die, but he knows a losing fight when he sees one. Still, he doesn’t want it to end like this.

Newt Scamander straddles his waist, one knee digging into the injured thigh. Percival hisses at the pressure and Newt laughs, a lovely thing. The other knee lingers too near to the apex of his thighs. He can’t turn away, because Newt grabs his jaw harshly and makes Percival look directly at him. His eyes are the same shade as the ocean, more green than blue and with little flecks of gold at the rim. Percival thinks he sees the storm clouds in them. Up close he can smell the iron scent of blood, count every golden eyelash and freckle on his skin. There’s one on the center of the Cupid’s bow of his lips, and Percival madly thinks he wants to lick it.

There’s an edge to him, animalistic, sharp and cold like he’s been carved out of marble. But Newt’s living and breathing, the heat in him strong in a way that borders on hot, that borders on scalding. A Nundu, mauled earlier in her life and missing a leg, licks her chops as she approaches them, and when Newt offers his hand out, she bows and purrs, not only docile but respecting.

(Percival is terrified.

At least, he _thinks_ the sensation in the pit of his stomach— dark and heavy— is fear.)

The Thunderbird preening behind them suddenly regards Percival. It’s head tilts to the side and its too intelligent eyes are bright with a cruelty he never believed beasts capable of. The creature caws, and Newt draws his hand up, smearing blood (the blonde one’s blood, Queenie’s, Percival remembers because Tina had heartbrokenly cried out her name when a Nundu tore her leg off) across his cheek, thumb rubbing over the lower lip in a manner too reverent for Percival to ignore.

“No, Frank. This one— he’s _more_ than just a treat.”

The thumb across Percival’s lip slides into his mouth. He presses his teeth against it, not biting but holding it there. His tongue laps at the tip of it and tastes blood and grime. When Newt draws his thumb, a string of saliva connects it to Percival’s lips.

Newt tilts his head in the same manner as the Thunderbird. He smiles, a hungry thing. Their faces are close enough that Percival can feel his hot breath on his face, and his cheeks flush. “You’re a fun one. I can tell that.”

He leaves him then. Gathers his creatures and disapparates with a crack, and the last thing Percival think as he goes under is that Newt did not notice how hard he has become.Seraphina finds him before he bleeds to death and takes him to the healers in the nick of time. In the quiet room, she dryly comments that she’s glad he joined the living, and for her sake, Percival forgets the way her voice wavers. He tells her nothing of what happened with Newt.

Many of their Aurors are dead, a good lot of them too. Their numbers have dwindled, she tells him, and that makes it harder to find and confront Newt. With his creatures, he’s a force to be reckoned.

Percival remembers back on how Tina had begged him to believe her when she said Newt was suspicious. He’d sneered at her watery eyes and pout, too tired of the ex-Auror’s constant antics, and he refused to listen to her rambling about criminals, reminding her of her then situation and position. Her blood will be, is, on his hands now.

( _Pity_ , he thinks vaguely over the magic and medicine haze, _that the one time Tina was right, it led to her death. Still, she was the stupid enough to take the man in, or perhaps it was her pathetic brand of desperation that pushed her so_.)

He’s discharged a day later at his own insistence, and attends more funerals than he ever imagined. The Goldsteins are the last. There is no time to mourn a folly Auror and her sister, who so easily trusted a strange man and wanted to use him for the their own purposes. The funeral is small and somber. No love is lost for either woman, never would be. No one reclaims the No-Maj’s body, and so he and Seraphina are the only who mourn him, more regret lingering in the air then than with the sisters.

The night of the Goldstein’s funeral, Percival Graves lays awake that night with a hand on his cock and Newt Scamander— blood-stained, moonlit, deathless— on his mind. He pictures Newt bouncing on his cock, Newt with a knife lodged in his side, Newt licking fresh blood off his cheek while he promises to tear Percival apart, and cums harder then he ever has in his life. It cools off on his stomach and thighs as he stares at the ceiling and his thoughts are nothing more than auburn curls and sunspots kissing pale skin and _NewtNewtNewt_.

(He hopes, wishes, prays (knows) that they do meet again.)


	2. Theseus/Leta, background Theseus/Queenie: Ah, unrequited love. When your best isn’t enough. (Participation medals of the heart.)

The drink is bitter as it goes down her throat. Leta grimaces and slams the glass down on the wooden table, conveniently hidden from the rest of the party, loud enough to worsen her headache but not loud enough to drown out the noise of high-pitched (nasally) laughter behind her. It’s a discordant sound that makes her grit her teeth.

Across the table, Newt’s worried. She knows he’s worried because he keeps doing that thing with his wand (which he claims he doesn’t do) where he pushes the tip of it against his lips. Newt doesn’t say anything when Leta pours herself another drink, though, because last time he said anything there was shattered glass and her palms were sliced and things were said that were true, but still hurt. So Newt just turns back to his companion (it’s the Maledictus girl, Leta can’t remember her name in the moment, not that she can remember anyone’s name through the haze; it’s not Tina because Newt’s still not on speaking terms with her) and leaves Leta to wallow in her own misery.

Misery tastes like alcohol and too many sweets. Misery sounds like New York accents, and smells like flowery perfume.

(Misery looks like Queenie fucking Goldstein with her arms around Theseus — ring on her finger and white dress, the whole nine yards — and looking at him like she’s his whole fucking world.)

Leta’s in drink number _something_ when **He** slides next to her, looking as miserable as she feels (and looks). The only other person in this whole circus who’s sick to their stomach. Whoever thought Newt didn’t have the capacity for wickedness didn’t know him well, because bringing the muggle along was shoving the knife in him and twisting it just right.

She tries to remember his name as he puts his hands on the counter. “Funny how things end up, huh?” He doesn’t ask as he takes a glass and pours his own drink, downing it before going on. “Queenie she uh… she always talked about us leavin’ New York. Going to England or somewhere we’d be able to get married, opening a bakery together there and I thought… you know, I _thought_.”

Leta knows. Leta used to think the same about Theseus, when they promised each other the entire world. But then she’d woken up after months of being unconscious by Grindelwald’s spell and by the time she was standing and back in English soil, Queenie had a child on the way and a wedding to plan and Theseus by her side. And then what of _her_?

“It’s strange to want to come to your ex-fiancées wedding.” Leta places a sharp emphasis on the ex (whoever said she had a capacity for wickedness knew her well). She’s aware she’s being hypocritical but Jacob (that’s his name, Jacob the muggle, who’s watching the love of his life get married to another man), doesn’t comment on it.

He gives a strange sort of shrug, that later on Leta realizes eerily resembles her own gestures. Small and withdrawing, belonging to a person who doesn't want to be the center of attention. “Between you and me, I really came for Newt. He needs someone after Tina,” a roll of his eyes, followed by a hiccough (he’s been drinking for as long as she’s had), “you know. Those two. I swear they’re never going to be happy.”

Leta nods and doesn’t answer. She knows enough about that to try and say anything. Behind them, slow music rises, and they turn in unison to see Theseus and Queenie dancing cheek to cheek. Their eyes are full of adoration for each other, and it makes Leta seethe with anger. She tries to remember all the times he looked at her like that, like she was the most precious thing his hands had ever held (she can’t find any times).

(She can’t find any of them, not in any memory of being with him and holding his hand and laughing with him. There’s gaps where those memories should be. Like everything she thought she knew was a fabricated image of her mind and she wonders just how was she expecting to keep up her own act.)

“ _They_ seem happy.”

“They do.”

It’s revolting. So she summons another bottle with her wand and pours herself and Jacob another drink to wash it away. A reasonable person would stop by the time they start slurring their words, but she’s Leta _goddamned_ Lestrange, and if she wants to drown her miseries in alcohol and hatred, she _goddamn_ will (and she will, for a _long_ time, about as long as Theseus promised to be hers).

“To us.” Now, Queenie is laughing at something Theseus’s has said, and Leta sees her reflection in the amber liquid, ripping both their curls from their heads in a rage. “Miserable and drunk.”

Jacob hesitates for a second before he lifts his own glass, clinks it with hers and offers a bitter smile. “To us, and to that they rip their heads off soon.” Leta thinks this could be the start of a great friendship.


	3. Newtphina: If loud, weird public sex is wrong, then being wrong is wicked hot. (right and wrong are just guidelines to hotter sex)

When the aftershocks of her orgasm wear of, Seraphina asks: “What exactly are you trying to prove here?”

It's New Year's Eve, a party in full swing just on the other side of the door — music, drinks, snow magicked to fall over the guests, the works — and Newt Scamander is between her legs, having eaten her out as if he had wanted nothing else in his life but the opportunity to do so. Newt stops running his hands over Seraphina's thighs, which are hot against his cold palms, to properly mull over her words. The New York winter has washed out the sun-kissed color from him, turning him pale enough that the scars on them stand out starkly against his skin. Her black stockings make his hand look even paler. Newt rubs his thumb over a small tear above the knee, distracted, until Seraphina wraps her fingers in his hair and pulls his head back to face her.

“I'm not trying to prove anything.” There's a lopsided grin on Newt's lips as he talks. Arousal makes his voice husky and breathless. “You make it seem like I have —” he thinks for the word he's searching for, hands continuing to roam. Newt makes a pleased noise as he toys with her garters, nails scraping Seraphina's thighs and making her shiver, “— an ulterior motive.”

“Of course,” Seraphina’s snort breaks off into a shaky sound when Newt sucks a bruise into her inner thigh. The grip on his hair becomes tighter, and he sighs against her skin. “You’re the patron saint of honesty and forthrightness. How could I forget?”

“And you as well, Madame President. Obviously you dragged me into your office for purely chaste, honest purposes.”

Newt stands from where he's been kneeling kisses the underside of Seraphina's chin. His lips are still wet from when he eagerly dove between her thighs. She has to tilt her head and stand on the tips of her toes to compensate for their height difference, but he helps by grabbing behind her thighs and lifting her up. The doorknob digs into Seraphina's lower back, and she shifts her hips to lessen the painful edge.

If anyone were to decide to burst into her office in that moment — as if they could somehow break through the wards — they'd get an eyeful of the way Newt ruts against Seraphina, how her hand curls around the nape of his neck, gentle but firm, makes his movements erratic. Her dress, his jacket and vest are a colorful pile on the floor, and a dusting of snow still clings to their clothes. Teeth dig into her shoulder and Seraphina shivers, presses herself tighter against Newt, her chest flush against his.

Newt laughs against the curve of her shoulder when Seraphina digs a heel against his lower back, rolling her hips to match him. Someone's laughing voice, muffled through the door, comes dangerously close, and she draws him into a kiss, biting down on his lower lip until she can taste blood. When Seraphina pulls back, there's a streak of bright red against his full mouth — her lipstick or blood? Likely both. Newt's pupils are blown with arousal, the painful kiss only having served in spurring him up more.

“You and your proclivities, I swear.” Seraphina wraps hand around the front of neck and tightens her grip. The sound he makes is torn between a strangled gasp and a moan of pleasure. “You enjoy getting caught.”

“I entertain the idea,” he confesses, rewarded with a soft keen when he brings two fingers down and strokes her, pulling his hand away quickly, and gets a kick for it. “But I'd rather be the only one who sees you like this.”

They move to her desk for better ease. Newt is sitting on it, with Seraphina astride on his lap. He watches the way her lashes flutter as she sinks down on him. All around them, the world explodes into colors and joyful screams and laughter as the New Year finally arrives. Her hair changes hue with the fireworks, from platinum to green to red.

“Be as loud as you’d like,” she purrs. “No one can hear us in here.”   


Newt's eyes gleam when smiles at her. “That’s certainly no fun.” He sucks another bruise to match the ones on her neck, and arches into her touch when she drags her nails down his back, raising welts. By morning, he’ll be bruised and battered but utterly satisfied. “But I’ll take take it as challenge.”

There's a lionine look to her. Maybe it's the sharp edge of Seraphina's smile, of how her curls are in disarray as she holds him down and rides him, but it's dangerous and alluring at once, and the combination works to make him give in to her demands soon enough.

They spend the rest of the night uninterrupted. In the lower levels of MACUSA, people kiss each other, and cry, moved by the display of fireworks and the promise of a better year. At the highest part of the building they, in their own way, celebrate the new year as well.

True to her word, no one interrupts them. Though, Newt muses as Seraphina presses her wand against his chin and tips it up, a threat, a promise, it's certainly not for lack of trying. She did want a new desk anyway.


	4. Seraleta: In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house and in that dark, dark house I think we should get drunk and fool around. (I want dirt under my fingernails.)

The chateau is an old, beautiful house that belonged to Jean-Luc Picquery. He built it hand in hand with his wife Korede, who despite her being heavy with child, refused to stay put while her husband puttered around. They raised the manor from the ground, by magic and by their own hands, and filled it with everything they loved.

“It was a gift for her,” Seraphina kisses the parts of Leta she loves the most. The spot behind her ear, the asymmetrical dips of her collarbones, the beauty mark on the bottom corner of her mouth. “Jean-Luc loved Korede so much he promised to build her a castle that reached the heavens. Korede insisted for something more practical.”

“Because an opulent chateau in Normandy is very practical.” Leta's laughter doesn't sound like music. It sounds the same way the rain against their window does, like the wind against the trees, like the birdsong just outside. The type of beautiful sound you have to listen to in reverent silence. “Tell me more about Korede and Jean-Luc.”

Jean-Luc Picquery fell hard and eternally in love with Korede and promised to build her a palace that reached the heavens, with the ocean close by so she would never spend a day without listening to it's song. Korede settled for his love instead, and together they built the steady foundation of it that would outgrow then. It didn't stop Jean-Luc's lavish presents. Seraphina's promises are less ostentatious than her ancestor's, but no less true.

In the light of dawn, Leta looks like someone else. Happier, surer, basking in the joy of living and loving. Her fingers trace a path from Seraphina's breast, to her waist, to the curve of her hips, the touch reverent. Leta's mouth tastes like honey and vanilla when Seraphina kisses her.

There's still dirt under Leta's fingernails from when she was pressed by Seraphina against the windowsill where the flowers bloom. She dug her fingers into the rich soil as Seraphina stroked her, at first, teasing, not giving her what she wanted, and then slipped one finger, then two, Leta burying her face against her neck as she rode her orgasms out and her legs trembled. When they had both cum, Leta slipping her between Seraphina's thighs and reciprocating the favor, they laughed and kissed, and the air around them smelt of sweat and salt and the cloying scent of the lilies.

Seraphina wonders if this is how Korede felt when she saw Jean-Luc, this surge of happiness, this strange wave calm washing over her. She wonders if this is how Korede knew she loved him, and she would always be with him.

Leta kisses the scar on Seraphina's sternum, one of her favorite parts of her. “You're thinking. What's on your mind?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I'm happy. With you, here.”  _ I'd be happy anywhere, as long as I was there with you by my side _ .

Leta smiles and slides out of the bed, pulling Seraphina up with her. The rain has stopped. “Come on, the day is too beautiful to spend indoors.”

They spent it huddled in the garden Korede built for Jean-Luc. A flower for every day that I have loved you, she had told him, and it was the pride of the chateau. Leta kisses Seraphina, hard and unyielding, against the rose beds, and when they pull apart, there's dirt under her fingernails.


End file.
